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muckefuckSo if you believe in jinxing, then that's what I did to myself with all that premature exaltation. I called at halftime and got voicemail; here's hoping the message I left was friendly and jocular rather than pathetic and hectoring or just plain incoherent. Soon after, I muted the television and started reading a Bolaño novel, which is just as well since the yanquis got pasted, 5-0.
After two hours of mouth-watering Tecate ads, I decided I wasn't to be denied my moustachioed eye-candy, so after dinner I traipsed up to the street festival at Clark and Morse. Two words: Not disappointed. As an extra special bonus, fellow admirahombres Diego was there with Uncle Betty in tow. We did a circuit, and at the end of it I ran into![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
welcomerain, who had heeded a call placed earlier.
While UB queued up for papusas and Diego waited for freshly-steamed tamales, I escorted our little ginger-haired pixie to where she could get some gorditas con chorizo and then I joined the world's slowest line at the woefully understaffed tent for La Monarca. It took three tries to explain to the woman that I didn't actually want my fried plantains doused in sweetened condenses milk, which was how they were being served, but smothered in ice cream. Who knew the language of à la mode wasn't universal?
But the best thing I put into my mouth there was the melon-based agua fresca from the tent next to the $2 beer. The clouds threatened to go all Maxfield Parrish on us without ever quite getting there, but the breeze was refreshing and I got to hear about the most sadistic excursion ever: a "food-lovers' tour" of Barcelona where they show you all the best places for obtaining various products but never let you eat any of it. (Next up: A wine-lovers' tour of Napa where you never leave the coach!)
With my reflux, it's probably all for the good that I looked at far more tantalising food than I attempted to enjoy. Same goes double for the delectables on two feet.
After two hours of mouth-watering Tecate ads, I decided I wasn't to be denied my moustachioed eye-candy, so after dinner I traipsed up to the street festival at Clark and Morse. Two words: Not disappointed. As an extra special bonus, fellow admirahombres Diego was there with Uncle Betty in tow. We did a circuit, and at the end of it I ran into
welcomerain, who had heeded a call placed earlier.While UB queued up for papusas and Diego waited for freshly-steamed tamales, I escorted our little ginger-haired pixie to where she could get some gorditas con chorizo and then I joined the world's slowest line at the woefully understaffed tent for La Monarca. It took three tries to explain to the woman that I didn't actually want my fried plantains doused in sweetened condenses milk, which was how they were being served, but smothered in ice cream. Who knew the language of à la mode wasn't universal?
But the best thing I put into my mouth there was the melon-based agua fresca from the tent next to the $2 beer. The clouds threatened to go all Maxfield Parrish on us without ever quite getting there, but the breeze was refreshing and I got to hear about the most sadistic excursion ever: a "food-lovers' tour" of Barcelona where they show you all the best places for obtaining various products but never let you eat any of it. (Next up: A wine-lovers' tour of Napa where you never leave the coach!)
With my reflux, it's probably all for the good that I looked at far more tantalising food than I attempted to enjoy. Same goes double for the delectables on two feet.
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What ... the bipeds come right back up?
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